Part 9 (1/2)

Dreaming herself the heroine Of the romances she preferred, Clarissa, Julia, Delphine,--(32) Tattiana through the forest erred, And the bad book accompanies.

Upon those pages she descries Her pa.s.sion's faithful counterpart, Fruit of the yearnings of the heart.

She heaves a sigh and deep intent On raptures, sorrows not her own, She murmurs in an undertone A letter for her hero meant: That hero, though his merit shone, Was certainly no Grandison.

[Note 32: Referring to Richardson's ”Clarissa Harlowe,” ”La Nouvelle Heloise,” and Madame de Stael's ”Delphine.”]

X

Alas! my friends, the years flit by And after them at headlong pace The evanescent fas.h.i.+ons fly In motley and amusing chase.

The world is ever altering!

Farthingales, patches, were the thing, And courtier, fop, and usurer Would once in powdered wig appear; Time was, the poet's tender quill In hopes of everlasting fame A finished madrigal would frame Or couplets more ingenious still; Time was, a valiant general might Serve who could neither read nor write.

XI

Time was, in style magniloquent Authors replete with sacred fire Their heroes used to represent All that perfection could desire; Ever by adverse fate oppressed, Their idols they were wont to invest With intellect, a taste refined, And handsome countenance combined, A heart wherein pure pa.s.sion burnt; The excited hero in a trice Was ready for self-sacrifice, And in the final tome we learnt, Vice had due punishment awarded, Virtue was with a bride rewarded.

XII

But now our minds are mystified And Virtue acts as a narcotic, Vice in romance is glorified And triumphs in career erotic.

The monsters of the British Muse Deprive our schoolgirls of repose, The idols of their adoration A Vampire fond of meditation, Or Melmoth, gloomy wanderer he, The Eternal Jew or the Corsair Or the mysterious Sbogar.(33) Byron's capricious phantasy Could in romantic mantle drape E'en hopeless egoism's dark shape.

[Note 33: ”Melmoth,” a romance by Maturin, and ”Jean Sbogar,” by Ch. Nodier. ”The Vampire,” a tale published in 1819, was erroneously attributed to Lord Byron. ”Salathiel; the Eternal Jew,” a romance by Geo. Croly.]

XIII

My friends, what means this odd digression?

May be that I by heaven's decrees Shall abdicate the bard's profession, And shall adopt some new caprice.

Thus having braved Apollo's rage With humble prose I'll fill my page And a romance in ancient style Shall my declining years beguile; Nor shall my pen paint terribly The torment born of crime unseen, But shall depict the touching scene Of Russian domesticity; I will descant on love's sweet dream, The olden time shall be my theme.

XIV

Old people's simple conversations My unpretending page shall fill, Their offspring's innocent flirtations By the old lime-tree or the rill, Their Jealousy and separation And tears of reconciliation: Fresh cause of quarrel then I'll find, But finally in wedlock bind.

The pa.s.sionate speeches I'll repeat, Accents of rapture or despair I uttered to my lady fair Long ago, prostrate at her feet.

Then they came easily enow, My tongue is somewhat rusty now.

XV

Tattiana! sweet Tattiana, see!

What bitter tears with thee I shed!

Thou hast resigned thy destiny Unto a ruthless tyrant dread.

Thou'lt suffer, dearest, but before, Hope with her fascinating power To dire contentment shall give birth And thou shalt taste the joys of earth.

Thou'lt quaff love's sweet envenomed stream, Fantastic images shall swarm In thy imagination warm, Of happy meetings thou shalt dream, And wheresoe'er thy footsteps err, Confront thy fated torturer!

XVI

Love's pangs Tattiana agonize.

She seeks the garden in her need-- Sudden she stops, casts down her eyes And cares not farther to proceed; Her bosom heaves whilst crimson hues With sudden flush her cheeks suffuse, Barely to draw her breath she seems, Her eye with fire unwonted gleams.

And now 'tis night, the guardian moon Sails her allotted course on high, And from the misty woodland nigh The nightingale trills forth her tune; Restless Tattiana sleepless lay And thus unto her nurse did say:

XVII

”Nurse, 'tis so close I cannot rest.

Open the window--sit by me.”